As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. She wanted him so badly it hurt. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. “Now you must go,” she said firmly. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. And from then on we'll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage.
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